#this is based on a novel by violet rain

[pharawee]

—This kiss will kill us. —Then kill us. Kill me…

THE HIDDEN MOON · เดือนพราง · Coming 2024

#the hidden moon #the hidden moon the series #benjamin brasier #folk touch #hiddenmoonedit #thai bl #thai drama #bl drama #bl series #my edits. #this is based on a novel by violet rain #who also wrote ifylita #it's a pity they seem to have cast ben and folk for the pilot #only to recast them later #what's the point #and ben and folk have such nice chemistry in this #i was excited for this now i'm just 😐 #weirdest proof of concept ever

[vest59wrenn]

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[tatelauritzen62]

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[queercore-curriculum]

PLS go ahead and go off about qu. 1 and 10, i am intrigued!

YES, thank you so much for asking! And for the wonderful prompts, of course!

1. RQG characters are now the characters in another podcast you love. Whose places do they take, and how does this change the narrative?

I’ve spent a lot of time imagining the RQG characters in the world of Campaign: Skyjacks, which is my favorite podcast of all time. Here’s how I’d cast them:

Hamid as Jonnit Kessler. I mean, it’s a very clear parallel. Both have Big Protagonist Energy. Both are all about that coming-of-age narrative. Both are gifted at magic. Both have outstanding style. Both are known for vomiting. Neither of them can drink. 

Wilde as Travis Matagot. Another extremely clear parallel. Travis is basically a nastier, more insecure, American Wilde. They are so similar,  it’s fantastic. I’d actually love for this to be a crossover, and for Travis and Wilde to meet each other and just. Not get along, at all. Or maybe have a lot of sexual tension, who knows? 

Zolf as Gable. Lots of great parallels here, particularly their crises of faith, their shared acts-of-service love language, and strong sense of responsibility for others. Also Gable’s old-married-couple dynamic with Travis is very Zoscar. All the existential crises, lol. I’ll also say that Azu could be a good fit for Gable as well—big, powerful, sweet, charmingly awkward—especially because Azu and Hamid’s lovely friendship is more in keeping with Gable’s dynamic with Jonnit.

I could go on and on about this, but my answer for #10 is very long and it’s getting late lol. I’ll just have to write an RQG/Skyjacks crossover or fusion at some point. Spéir is just such an unbelievably great world!

10. Invent a plot for a Harrison Campbell novel; fictional or from canon.

Oh my god I love this question so fucking much. I have a deep, unhealthy obsession with Zolf’s deep, unhealthy obsession with Harrison Campbell. I just think it says so much about his character—this idea that he thinks of love as something you read about in books, just a story that gives you comfort but isn't real. ZOLF SMITH I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

All this is to say, I’ve plotted out four Harrison Campbell novels:

When Passions Collide 

Jennifer is a commercial fisherwoman who has worked on a trawler since she was fourteen. Her captain is an absolute garbage person and she barely makes enough money to live, so she dreams of one day buying a trawler of her own. 

Richard is an apprentice painter who is making his professional debut at an exhibition in London in a few months, but he has yet to produce a painting that’s worthy of showcasing—all of his work is technically exceptional but lacks that spark of inspiration that brings a painting to life, and he wants to paint someone with a story worth telling. 

One day he goes to the docks to practice drawing from life, and when he sees Jennifer he’s captivated by her physicality and realizes that her body carries this story he’s been longing to paint. So he chases her down and asks to paint her portrait, and while she’s skeptical she agrees when he offers to give her all the money he makes when the painting is sold. Richard spends the rest of the novel painting Jennifer’s portrait and getting to know her, because he needs to understand her for the painting to really come to life. 

If you want to read more, you can find passages of my take on When Passions Collide in my fic Before a Fall (for which I created the Jennifer/Richard tag on AO3, one of my proudest RQG fandom accomplishments). I plotted out the entire novel and developed backstories for the characters and generally got way too into it, but I’m pretty proud of what I came up with and actually thought about writing an original novel based on When Passions Collide for a while. Maybe someday!

Love in a Time of Hardship

Violet and Rory have been friends since childhood, and Rory has loved Violet all their life. But Violet doesn’t have time for romance because she wants nothing more than to leave their rural community and go to medical school. 

Flash forward, and Violet has graduated medical school and is now an infectious disease specialist. When an aggressive pandemic sweeps through her hometown, Violet returns to work on the team researching a cure. Rory still lives there, and still loves Violet as much as ever. Violet still believes work comes first. But when Rory gets sick, suddenly Violet’s work is personal, and she realizes how much she has to lose. 

The Heart Beats Faster

An erotic lesbian romance that takes place at manor house party. I haven’t put that much thought into this plot, other than it’s definitely inspired by Think of England by K.J. Charles and has an extremely sexy scene in a greenhouse that’s basically the legendary “spoils of war” scene from the Drarry fic Transfigurations by Resonant. 

Questions of the Heart

Ok so this one is pretty meta. But in my coffeeshop AU fic Coriander, Wilde is a novelist who’s basically writing self-insert fic about him and Zolf while sitting in Zolf’s café. And on an RQG Discord server I was talking about how I kinda ship Zolf and Harrison Campbell because that fan/creator thing they’ve got going on is rife with sexual tension, and my friend Rain was like, what if Harrison Campbell came into the cafe a few years before but Zolf didn't recognize him, and was also inspired to write self-insert fic about him and Zolf?

So the premise is, Campbell went into Zolf’s café and soaking wet from the rain, and this handsome, muscular dwarf gave him a free curry so he could warm up, and then defended him from a mean customer. And Campbell was inspired to write a novel featuring Zolf as a protagonist. 

So he writes Questions of the Heart, which is a murder mystery/gothic romance with a lot of pathetic fallacy that’s heavily inspired by Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights (but make it extremely pulpy). Zolf’s character is named Jonah (lol) and there’s a femme fatale inspired by Sasha named Melanie (lol). Harrison Campbell’s self-insert is a Jane Eyre-type that Jonah defends even though they don’t really know each other. And the basic theme is that Jonah has some kind of idealized/overromantic vision of the protagonist that gets disabused somehow, but then he ends up falling in love with him for who he really is. Also there’s a Jonah/Melanie/Harrison Campbell insert love triangle. 

Alright I’m sure that was WAY more than you bargained for, but thanks for giving me an excuse to be extra AF, this was extremely fun <3

#rusty quill gaming #rqg ask game #skyjacks #harrison campbell #rgq

[patricianandclerk]

Making An Effort

Gen. Miles Maitland, Gabriel, and Aziraphale. Humour! Rated a light-hearted M. 

“Hello, Mr Fell,” Miles chimed as he stepped out of the rain, shaking off his umbrella. The proprietor of the shop – A.Z. Fell & Co., a delightful little spot – moved forward, and he fussed over Miles most delightfully, a moue tugging at his lips as he reached out and pushed Miles’ slightly damp hair from his face.

“Oh, it is raining dreadfully hard, isn’t it?” Mr Fell said sympathetically, and Miles couldn’t help the little giggle that dragged at his lips as the other man fixed his hair into place. “You must be very cold.”

“Not so cold, Mr Fell, for you know I am most immune to such ordinary happenstances as a drop of rain or, Heaven forbid, a cold,” Miles said, setting his umbrella into the bin for the purpose – although there was something about the shop, perhaps the way the draught and air flowed, that seemed to make one’s umbrella bone dry as soon as one crossed the threshold, so it was not as if he strictly needed to set it aside.

“Looking for any volume in particular?” Mr Fell asked, arching his eyebrow, and Miles grinned.

“No, just to browse, if that’s alright. I have rather devoured the last set of books I acquired from you, and so devoid as I am of night time reading I am forced to go in search of other wicked things to keep me entertained,” he murmured, and Mr Fell gave one of his prim little nods, lips smiling, and bustled further into the shop, allowing Miles to follow in his wake. The resemblance between them, Miles thought, was most uncanny – Mr Fell had tightly curled, blond hair that threatened in the direction of white where Miles’ own was a good deal darker, and Mr Fell was certainly plumper and thirty years older, but certain differences in shape and colouring aside, they really did have very similar features indeed.

“Well,” Mr Fell had said when Miles had mentioned it, and brightly declared they must be cousins somewhere along the line, “everyone has a natural doppelganger, so they say.” And then, he had muttered to himself, muffling the words with his glass of cherry, “And I suppose we must get the blueprints from somewhere.”

He said a lot of odd things like that, did Mr Fell.

The wonderful thing about Mr Fell, however, was his astonishing ability to make sure policemen didn’t come sniffing about – he was dreadfully useful in his gentlemen’s club in Portland Place, which was a rather quiet and boring affair, but was never invaded even by the most supercilious bobby going about his hardworking day ruining a fellow’s life, and here, too, he had a little backroom, dedicated to banned books. Books, one might say, for the discerning patron.

Inverts, like Miles, who just wanted a bit of, well, of romance, and failing that, some erotica.

(It was usually erotica.)

“Come along, dear,” Mr Fell said brightly, and led him off. Mr Fell was an odd duck, and no mistake. He was dreadfully kind – far kinder than anybody had any right being to Miles, Miles thought, although he was grateful – but he was a little sad at times, sad and quiet, thoughtful.

“You might join us for lunch this week, Mr Fell,” Miles said charitably. “Agatha and I wanted to try this new restaurant in Mayfair, and we’ll bring the cabal – you know, Adam, Nina…”

“Not that Tiger fellow?”

“Broken it off with him,” Miles said, looking at his nails and ignoring the sinking pit in his belly. “He was an awful bore, you know.”

Mr Fell turned to look at him, and for just a moment, Miles saw it all, that tremendous pain the man seemed to have sometimes. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers over Miles’ cheek, cupping it.

“I must do something for you, you know,” he said softly, in that paternal manner he sometimes had with Miles. He was like this with a lot of the young inverts – he’d not allow anybody into his bed, but he’d feed them biscuits and cocoa, give them the right books, set them up with one another. He was so... soppy, Agatha might say, but Miles couldn’t help but think it was the soft-heartedness of a man who’s own great love story had gone rather awry. “Find you a young fellow who’ll be as sweet to you as you deserve.”

“I don’t like sweet,” Miles said.

“Liar,” Aziraphale murmured, with his crinkling eyes, his little wink, his little smile, and then he patted Miles’ cheek. “You’re the only one in, dear boy, so give me a moment, and I’ll pop and make you a cup of something.”

“Something stiff?”

Aziraphale gave him an indignant, disbelieving look. “It’s eleven in the morning, Mr Maitland.”

“It’s midnight somewhere,” Miles said, tone wheedling, but he grinned, because he knew he’d be refused. It was funny, when Mr Fell decided to be so stern, like a father.

“No, your options are tea and cocoa.”

“Cocoa, then,” Miles murmured, and then glanced to the side. “Oh, is that the new Henry James?”

“His autobiography,” Mr Fell said, in his sometimes snooty way, and he went back down the stairs, leaving Miles alone to pick up and examine the novel with interest.

--

Gabriel liked to check in.

It was a way, he thought, to touch base, whatever the Hell that meant, and to keep close with his favourite of the retinue, all his most problematic. Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate, kinda fit under both umbrellas.

Gabriel liked Aziraphale.

Guy was weird. Oh, the guy was weird.

He had kinda… Gone native a little. You know, the top brass had bodies, they knew what it was like, and Gabriel liked some of it – he liked picking out nice clothes and feeling all the fabrics, loved the texture some stuff had, liked to jog and do discus and swim and all the sports the humans kept coming up with, but…

Aziraphale, he ate. That was just—

Aziraphale, he ate. That was just—

Yigh.

Just the idea of it, of having stuff in his mouth, on his tongue, on his perfect teeth – Gabriel’s perfect teeth, not Aziraphale’s – it was just… creepy! But Aziraphale, he loved that. And Aziraphale, he could do all kinds of cool stuff – he did a little of the magic tricks that humans did, and he could do this wild thing called origami, which frankly blew Gabriel’s mind, and he could, you know, read.

Impressive guy.

Gabriel dipped into the bookshop, and he glanced around, seeing the shadow of a hat up on the second floor. He jogged up, whistling idly to himself. It was a good day. Aziraphale had good figures on his miracles – he was doing good, he was doing good. It was all good in the… Neighbourhood? Somewhere.

He was the archangel Gabriel, so everywhere around him was kinda contractually obligated to be good, so…

“Hey,” he said, and he clapped his hand onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was dressed a little differently to normal, with paint on his face, or something – eyedarkness? Eyeshade? That stuff, on his eyes, and he was wearing sunglasses, and the fabric… Ooh… Gabriel dragged his fingers over the fabric on Aziraphale’s shoulder – it was a deep purple, and it shimmered, but it felt smooth under Gabriel’s fingers, smooth and silky.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said slowly.

--

The grip that clapped down onto his shoulder was a sudden, vigorous strike, and Miles looked at it, finding neatly trimmed fingernails and a rather handsome hand, under a lightly lilac suit – one of those subdued lilacs that pretended to be grey, except to the determined viewer. He followed the hand up to the face it belonged to, and took in the handsome visage of a fellow about Mr Fell’s age, with neatly trimmed hair and—

Goodness, what eyes.

“Hey,” the fellow said – an American with pretty, violet eyes, and hands like that? What was the saying? God will provide?

“Hello,” Miles said. “May I, ah, help you?”

“We have to talk in private,” rumbled the fellow, with a sort of bright and cheerful confident, an easy smile on his face. The handsome fingers were stroking the fabric of Miles’ jacket, now, a pleasant shift over his shoulder.

Reaching up and pushing down his sunglasses that he could get a better look at the man, taking in his physique. He was big. Big, tall, broad-shouldered… He was a handsome one. And bold, too, very bold. “Oh, yes,” Miles agreed, settling his own hand on the American’s thigh, which was gorgeously hard and plentiful of muscle, and giving him a grin of pearly-white teeth. “I believe we do.”

He pressed on the false door to the room with the banned books, and he reached up for the American’s hand, tugging him inside and pulling it closed again.

“Oh,” the American said, glancing around the little book-lined room as Miles pushed him back onto the little couch. Mr Fell might get… just a bit annoyed with him, if he thought Miles was the only one in the shop, but honestly, it wasn’t as though they’d be the first to have a tousle in this little room, and in any case, the fellow was handsome. Even Mr Fell would be able to allow Miles that. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“Well, you do now,” Miles murmured, dropping into his lap, and the American’s eyes widened. “Why so surprised?”

“Just— Never had someone sit on my legs before.”

“No? Oh, you poor dear,” Miles murmured, setting his sunglasses aside, and reached for the American’s trousers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be between them soon enough.”

The pretty violet eyes widened further, but no protest was made, and when Miles guided the American’s hands to his hips, the American was most obedient. Somewhat simple, evidently, but easily handsome to make up for that…

--

Aziraphale did so like it when Miles decided to drop in. He was a charming young fellow, and Aziraphale did know it was important to have friends and connections, particularly since he no longer spoke with Crowley. There was something kindred, he felt, with young chaps like Miles, with the individuals at the Hyacinth and Vine on Portland Place, and with Aziraphale himself.

Forbidden love and all that.

Oh, he ached sometimes, thinking of Crowley. Where was he, now? Still in London? Still about…?

At the scream from upstairs, Aziraphale dropped his mug of cocoa and was utterly heedless of its shatter, rushing out into the bookshop proper and running up the stairs faster than he’d ever moved in his life, his speed heavily augmented by a little magic at his heels, and he shoved open the false wall, looking into the private gallery.

He surveyed the scene with his mouth fallen open.

Young Miles Maitland, languishing in a dead faint, over the lap of a tall, broad gentleman with his trousers unbuttoned – a gentleman, in fact, who was not a gentleman at all, nor even a man, and was Aziraphale’s superior, the archangel Gabriel. Gabriel’s expression was one of baffled horror, and he looked askance at Aziraphale.

“He just— he—” Gabriel stared at him, looking between Aziraphale and the prone form of his patron. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale snapped, lamenting as ever for Gabriel’s immeasurable stupidity, and he came forward, leaning and gently scooping Miles into his arms – and that took a bit of a miracle too, honestly, not that the young chap was too heavy. “For goodness’ sake, Gabriel, what did you do to him?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He was already carrying the poor thing downstairs, to lay him down on the plush sofa in Aziraphale’s office. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever fainted, at least – young Miss Runcible, his good friend, had told a few amusing stories as to Miles’ unfortunate afflictions, and Aziraphale could at least be comforted by that. His pulse was steady, and Aziraphale was quick about laying him down and covering him over with a blanket, rushing to clean up the cocoa and make him a new cup for when he woke up.

“I didn’t do anything!” Gabriel was saying, peering down at the poor boy.

“Button up your trousers,” Aziraphale hissed, forgetting his usual reservations with even mild rudeness to Gabriel – the chap was his boss, after all, and he did worry about being honest about how much he disliked the other angel, but— But, honestly. “What did you— Why in goodness’ name was he—?”

“Well, he just! I thought he was you, you look the same!”

“Oh, well, take that up with the Corporations Department, it’s hardly my fault!”

“Well, he just— Aziraphale, I said hey and he said hey back and I said, well, we have to talk in private and he said yes, we do, so why would he agree?” Gabriel’s voice was rather loud, and Aziraphale had to restrain himself from smacking him and telling him to shush as he poured out more cocoa. Not only did the bast— No, not only did Aziraphale’s beloved commander feel the need to invade the shop now and then to “tickle base” or whatever nonsense he was calling it now, he was molesting the patrons! And poor Miles, of all— “And he sat on me and reached into my pants, and then he just… Made that noise, and fainted.”

“What’s in them?” Aziraphale asked.

“What’s in my pants? Nothing! I don’t like putting stuff in my pockets, it ruins the lines of the fabric.”

Aziraphale tightly pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly through his nose. “I meant,” he said quietly, looking at the red-faced, uncertain form of Gabriel, “what sort of effort did you make?”

“Effort?” Gabriel repeated blankly.

Aziraphale, pink dashing his own cheeks, looked at Miles, still out of it, and then to Gabriel. “Show me,” he said crisply. Gabriel was without anything like modesty, and he undid his trousers again, tugging them down. Aziraphale looked, for a long moment, at the blank curve of flesh there. Decades later, he would recount the story to Crowley, and tell him, tears streaking down his cheeks, about how Gabriel had invented the Ken doll years before its creators. In the moment, it was not funny at all. “Of course,” he muttered. “Do button them up, Gabriel, you’ll give him another shock.”

“Well, what did he expect?”

“Well, I don’t know, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, more archly than he meant to, and regretting it even as the words tumbled from his lips, “perhaps a penis?”

“Oh,” Gabriel said, understanding dawning like a sunrise over a particularly stupid mountain, and Aziraphale sat down on a stool beside the prone form of Miles, gently patting his cheek.

“Miles? Miles, darling, are you with us?” He set a smelling salt beneath the poor thing’s nose, and Miles blinked, his head tipping back against the couch. He drew a hand gently through Miles’ hair, and Miles’ head lolled, turning to look at him. Aziraphale watched his eyes very carefully, making sure they were focusing properly.

“I had the funniest dream, Mr Fell,” Miles said. “About a man with no genitals.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, feeling only the slightest bit guilty for the disapproval he injected into his tone, “I have said before you ought sup from your white mistress’ table a bit less, my dear. Have you much on you?” Miles was rather a devil for cocaine, as was the fashion for a lot of young people these days, and Aziraphale didn’t suppose it was too naughty to encourage him away from it.

“Just my compact,” Miles mumbled, giving him a childish pout.

“Well, you gave Gabriel quite the shock, fainting like that.”

“Oh,” Miles said, following his gaze to Gabriel, who was wide-eyed and looking between them. “So you do have a cock, after all?”

“Of course,” Gabriel blustered, “and chickens, and a coop. Just a normal man with a cock. And a penis too, of course. I have one of those.”

Aziraphale stared at him, but Miles had mistaken Gabriel’s honest idiocy for dry humour, and was giggling.

“Oh, you are a treat,” he purred. “Handsome and droll – Mr Fell, wherever were you keeping this delightful evening meal?”

“Gabriel is my cousin,” Aziraphale lied, gesturing for Gabriel to go away, which Gabriel either ignored, or didn’t understand. “From America.”

“Goodness,” Miles said, absently taking the cup from Aziraphale’s hands and drinking from it. His gaze was quite voracious as he took in Gabriel’s body, and Aziraphale wrinkled his nose slightly. “Well, you must dine with me, Gabriel.”

“I don’t eat,” Gabriel said as Aziraphale winced.

“Well, you must simply sleep with me, then, and we’ll leave dining by the wayside.”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale scolded him, but Miles, the incorrigible, only batted his eyelashes in Gabriel’s direction.

“Sit down,” Miles said to Gabriel, patting the sofa beside him, and Gabriel took a step forward, butt Aziraphale stood, stopping him and shaking his head emphatically. Gabriel frowned.

“Do excuse us for a moment, Miles,” Aziraphale said, and brought Gabriel out into the main body of the shop. “What— Gabriel. What is it you needed?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel said. “Touching base.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Well, all is fine here, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Consider base touched. You’re sure it isn’t tickled?”

“Is he gonna be okay?” Gabriel asked, and Aziraphale looked up at him, somewhat surprised. Gabriel, like most other angels, wasn’t especially in touch with the individuals humans that populated the Earth – they tended to see them as a swathe of mortals, a wider group, and it was down to lower angels in the pecking order to care about particular ones.

“Yes, quite fine,” Aziraphale said. “He’ll be tickety-boo, given a little time to recover.”

“You sure I shouldn’t…?”

Gabriel wiggled his fingers meaningfully, and Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, tugging his hand down.

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, but with no small amount of haste in his tone. “The last time you did something to help a human, that poor girl got pregnant. The madness there was, trying to fix all that up once you’d done that. The husband was furious.”

“Only to begin with,” Gabriel said. “And look what happened after!”

“Thank you, Gabriel, for— for tickling base,” Aziraphale murmured. “But I’ll look after him.”

“Alright,” Gabriel said, with the smallest bit of reluctance, and Aziraphale went back to Miles.

“I wish they made more men like him,” Miles said softly. “Goodness, isn’t he just a meal and a half?”

“Oh, I think I can find you someone better. More your age, at the least.”

“He isn’t so old,” Miles said.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, shutting the door to the shop at large, and clicking the lock to the shop entrance with a thought. “You’ve not the slightest idea.”

#as defined by dictionary #aziraphale #gabriel good omens #miles maitland #good omens #bright young things #fanfic

[autumnstwilight]

Shisou Rinne, Reirou no Tsui*

Despite that, people try to live on in their ugliness And that, I think, is very beautiful The timbre of their memories is blown away by the wind and flutters up into the sky Dancing freely without being struck down by rain singing the praises of their short lives

Round and round, never to be rewarded (Wishing and wishing, wishes that will not come true) Oh my children who weave the path (Running and running, never to get there) Let the wind carry your tales (Repenting and repenting, but your sin will never vanish) Someday I shall lay them to rest in the sky (Round and round again, with no end in sight)

Footprints and heartbeats, when they begin, they are facing toward their end Despite that, people have walked into the distance Cursing and lamenting the distorted floating world, they still seek Despite that, they are unable to get anything at all

Kicked to the ground and beaten, rained upon, collapsed in tears Even if they scream with hoarse throats, they are unable to fight Stealing from each other, ruled by others, falling and bleeding Even then they rise to their feet, and cry out their longing

Sing and sing, never to be rewarded (Wishing and wishing, wishes that will not come true) Oh my children who walk the path (Running and running, never to get there) Tell your tales to the wind (Climbing and climbing, only to fall and hang by your fingernails) Someday I shall offer them up to the heavens (Fighting and fighting, all it gets you is everlasting scars)

All meetings with others, when they begin, are heading toward a farewell Despite that, people want to live by someone else's side

Betrayed and humiliated, kicked down and heartbroken Even if they scream until their throat tears open, their voice won't come out Denied their own lives, again and again they vow to die Yet once again they climb to their feet, and cry out their wish

Without a sound, the torches die, and all falls into a deep darkness There...at the end of it all, a single cherry blossom tree blooms in the underworld

The flower petals, reflecting the many deaths faintly color the air, fall to the earth and stain it red You say that the countless deaths fluttering on the warm spring breeze are beautiful That makes me very happy, and I beckon a death for each and every petal "If, in the end, they bloom so beautifully, then surely they too have been rewarded"

Saigyou Ayakashi** Tonight, once again, it blooms wildly under the violet moonlight

Each may struggle as they like, yet fall equally in the cruel world (Wishing and wishing, wishes that will not come true) And yet, for people there is no path but living in this moment (Running and running, never to get there) "You too, go around and then fall like a petal (Repenting and repenting, but your sin will never vanish) Shining notes of death's dance, a jewel-bright ending"* (Round and round again, with no end in sight)

Let them bloom and bloom, never to be rewarded (Sing and sing, though their voices never reach) Oh my children who walk the path (Even if they get what they want, it breaks in their hands) Embrace your tales (Repenting and repenting, but your sin will never vanish) Someday I will deliver them to the heavens (Round and round again, with no end in sight)

Despite that, people try to live on in their ugliness And that, I think, is very beautiful

-

*The title, 死奏燐音、玲瓏ノ終 (shisou rinne, reirou no tsui) is mostly kanji stuck together in a novel combination, so it can’t really be translated. 死奏燐音 is “death”, “musical performance”, “will o’wisp”, “sound/musical note” and 玲瓏ノ終 is “a jewel-bright ending”. So I glossed the first part as “shining notes of death’s dance”, based on imagery in the song but that’s rather approximate. **For those unfamiliar with Touhou, this is the name of the cherry blossom tree.

#music #lyrics #translation #japanese music #eastnewsound #touhou #long post

[rpgmgames]

Happy New Year from RPGMGames! Let's take a moment to reflect on 2018 and look back at all of the incredible projects and developers that were featured last year.

January’s Featured Game: HELLO CHARLOTTE

GENRE: Surreal, Horror, Dark Comedy WARNINGS: Gore, Body Horror, Graphic Content SUMMARY: Meet Charlotte - a puppet you will control. Meet her alien friends, maggot cat and a certain Observer. Dive deep into horrors of junk food, TV world, religion and romance novels for middle-age women. Keep your puppet safe at all times. Or don’t. Have fun dying! Check it out here: EP1 | EP2 | EP3 | DELIRIUM

February’s Featured Game: LONE STAR

GENRE: Western, Action, Adventure SUMMARY: Lone Star takes place in the far-flung, sunbaked desert country of Diamondback, where sheriffs struggle to maintain civil order and protect the public from the deserts’ many vicious outlaws. The demand for someone to enforce the law led to independently operated training programs for citizens who want to help keep the peace. Elmer is a student of one such program held in the little mining locale of Bulk Rock City, who ventures into the chaotic wasteland alone in an effort to do his part as a sheriff-in-training. Check out the developer's blog here!

March’s Featured Game: CERESS AND OREA

GENRE: Puzzle, Adventure SUMMARY: Ceress is sentenced to death, because she’s in love with the ‘wrong’ person. But stubborn as she is, she calls out to an old deity, demanding a chance to change this unrighteousness. Can Ceress overcome death to be reunited with the woman she loves, Orea? Play the game here!

April’s Featured Game: FOLKLORIA

GENRE: Adventure, RPG SUMMARY: Folkloria is a lighthearthed turn-based RPG set on a floating island inhabited by mythological creatures. You play as Weaver, a young and unassuming griffin determined to rescue his family from the clutches of Dr. Zeralidius, a shady businessperson from the world below the clouds who plans to modernize the peaceful island. Check out the developer's blog here!

May’s Featured Game: MARE

GENRE: Horror, Adventure, Fantasy, RPG WARNINGS: Listed here SUMMARY: The game follows Naomi, who awakens to find that they cannot remember their name, memories, and where they are. All they know is they can hear a lone voice calling to them, “Naomi, come find me.” Play the demo here!

June’s Featured Game: QUEEN MARY'S SCRIPT RETOLD

GENRE: Adventure SUMMARY: Queen Mary’s Script is a tale of a young girl who finds a happy escape in her own dreams. She lives in a shell closed off from the world and only in her own room can she express her feelings. That is, until she happens upon the doll Clause and all at once, the magic she yearned for in her life is thrust upon her. However, she soon finds that magic isn’t always what it looks like in books and dolls are just as selfish as humans. Play the demo here!

July’s Featured Game: BLACK CRYSTALS

GENRE: Fantasy, RPG WARNINGS: Alcohol Reference, Drug Reference, Use of Alcohol, Use of Drugs, Use of Tobacco, Mild Blood, Fantasy Violence, Sexual Themes SUMMARY: Starsio, a street performer, finds himself in the stickiest of situations. Starsio was kidnapped off the streets of his home town and brought to the brothel Paprika where he is forced to become a performer. One rainy night, Starsio gathers his courage and wits and plans an escape. He convinces Arthur, an apprehensive and fidgety new found friend, to accompany him. Starsio sets his escape plan in motion with one last song… Check out the developer's blog here!

August’s Featured Game: SHROOM SOUP

GENRE: Adventure, RPG, Psychological Horror WARNINGS: Listed here (may contain spoilers) SUMMARY: You play as Arnika, a gloomy teenage girl. Perpetually tired, you live off excessive sleep, lime juice, and instant soup. You look into the vortex forming in your cup of said soup, this time mushroom flavour. Next thing you know, you are in an entirely different world where everything, from buildings to people, is being devoured by fungi. It seems like you have no choice but to walk on… Your journey involves exploration, puzzle-solving and battles. Play the demo here!

September’s Featured Game: GHOST HOSPITAL

GENRE: Adventure, RPG WARNINGS: Anxiety, Body horror, Implied child harm SUMMARY: Ghost Hospital is a game about anxiety, depression, despair, mental rock bottoms, and, of course, ghosts. You play as Robin, a twelve-year-old girl who has an anxiety disorder and is very much alive in this hospital meant for beings that are not alive. Frankly, her anxiety was already bad enough before she landed in a hospital full of dead people, the still-shambling shells of ancient ghosts who try to take her down for a sweet taste of life, and the hospital directors hellbent on keeping her contained, and more importantly, away from the reason she’s REALLY there. Thankfully, you have your new friends Jay and Sarcastic Ghost- Jay is a ghost about your age, and still a very new arrival to the hospital, and Sarcastic Ghost…well, he’s an amorphous blob of a ghost, who talks a lot despite not having a mouth. Play the demo here!

October’s Featured Game: OVERCAST

GENRE: Horror, Supernatural, Action, RPG WARNINGS: Graphic Violence, Body Horror, Drugs and Alcohol, Obscured Nudity, Mild Gore, Suicide Reference, Religous References SUMMARY: Overcast is an Action RPG with two separate protagonists. Violet; the modest yet strict Spirit of the Sun, and Nico; the relaxed yet distant Spirit of Rain. In a world where humans and spirits live alongside each other, Nico is a lonely spirit that resides on Aarat, an obscure city on an island in the middle of the sea shrouded by dark clouds. For some mysterious reason it rains at all times. After a catastrophe forced Nico into hiding; Violet emerges from her home in the heavens; Paradiso, to take the island by storm and bring an end to the rain. Check out the developer's blog here!

November’s Featured Game: SHOOTY AND THE CATFISH

GENRE: Adventure, RPG WARNINGS: Course Language, Gore SUMMARY: Shooty and the Zaat are a dynamic duo solving monstrous mysteries! Play the demo here!

December’s Featured Game: SOMA SPIRITS

GENRE: RPG SUMMARY: Soma Spirits is a choice-driven Role-Playing Game in which players will face heavy dilemmas with a colorful cast of characters. Unlike many games of choice, the decisions you will make in the world of Soma are not so black and white, and characters will undergo different changes depending on how you wish to proceed. The world of Soma is a land divided into two similar, but distinct versions of one another. At certain locations, you will be able to travel back and forth between the World of Joy and the World of Sorrow and find different inhabitants, monsters, and clues on how to proceed. How you decide to help the people you meet along your journey will determine which of the game’s five outcomes Heart and Soul will find themselves in. Play the game here! Check out the extended version here!

We look forward to many more exciting interviews and new projects in the year to come!

#rpg maker #rpgmaker #indie games #free games #rpg horror #game dev #masterpost #game of the month #gotm #gotm 2018 #long post

[memoirsverse]

Dresden Files/The Authors of Paradise: Dark Days

This is a crossover fan novel featuring my own characters and world of The Authors of Paradise, blended with those of Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files. This derivative crossover work is being written for the sheer fun of it, with no financial gain. Jim Butcher owns Harry Dresden, The Dresden Files, and all associated characters. I own Evelyn Alvar, Arabella Thorne, Thornebridge Manor, The Authors of Paradise, and all associated characters. I’ve taken the two worlds, mashed them together, and whipped up this meandering thingamabob. Mmm, tasty. 

This novel is rated M for Mature, because it’ll get bloody. This chapter isn’t bloody, though; just dreadful.

i. Evelyn

I emerged in a room that shifted and warped, always in motion, always changing, and turned my attention to the figure standing at the far end. A softly glowing, color-changing mist curled around my ankles as I walked past impossible staircases and other Mobius-like structures, approaching the figure. It stood dispassionate, sexless, an endless void that glimmered with distant stars. Its name was Thornebridge, and this was the form it took in this place.

If I looked too deeply into that void, I would be drawn in, tumbling helplessly for eons as every potentiality, every reality, every actuality, every universe seared itself indelibly onto my conscious mind. I would know the truth about myself if I did that. I didn’t want to know. I most certainly did not want to know. I was confident it would drive me mad.

My bare feet settled into place, concealed by the mist, as I stopped directly in front of Thornebridge. I was wearing the filmy white thing that I always wore when I Traveled, and hair the color of moonlight tumbled over my marble-toned shoulders. I’d seen my reflection before in this form. I looked like a marble statue with intensely purple-jewel eyes, inhuman and profoundly alien. I had grown accustomed to it, but I still didn’t understand the why of it.

“You have something to tell me?” I ventured finally. I would never be entirely comfortable talking with Thornebridge-- if talking was the right word. The entity had its own language, one that didn’t often translate well into English, or any other language with actual words.

The response was instantaneous. From out of the mist, a great tower pushed its way out of the hidden ground, rumbling like thunder as it grew to a great height. Dust and debris rained down from it as it stretched higher and higher like some kind of monolithic tree, until its top vanished into the star-studded, nebula-swirled darkness above. A pair of winged figures circled the tower, armed with swords, their wings beating the air into a whirlwind as they flew around and around and around it.

A low, animalistic growl surged behind me, and I turned to see a man dressed in robes and expensive finery, crowned by four inverted pentacles that spun around his head. The man looked like a photograph in negative exposure, black and white, light where he should be dark and dark where he should be light. He ran at the tower and leaped on it, clawing at its base, digging to its foundations, tearing off huge chunks of stone and dropping them into a large canvas bag he carried slung over one shoulder. The two angels didn’t seem to see him, continuing their high-altitude patrol.

I sighed. The overall message was obvious, but the details were still obscured. “Who’s attacking you?” I asked.

The robed man vanished from his place by the tower and appeared before me so suddenly that I took a couple of steps backwards. I took a breath to steady myself and turned my eyes to Thornebridge. “But who is he?”

The human-shaped starry void said nothing. Of course. It stood still, its head turned towards me.

I could look into its void and See...

Shaking my head, I motioned with my hand to the diorama. “If you want our help, you’re going to have to be a bit more clear than that. Okay?”

Thornebridge just watched me. This was apparently the entirety of the message; I wasn’t going to get any more unless I Looked.

I ran my hands through my hair and sighed again. “All right, fine. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Thornebridge nodded, and the scene vanished, replaced once again with the Escher-like environment. Closing my eyes, I let myself phase through the layers of reality, back to whatever dimension my Traveling form was held in. I felt the threads of silken energy close around me like a cocoon, and my conscious awareness faded to gentle black before becoming aware of the weight and solid mass of my everyday form.

I lay there for a minute, eyes closed, letting my consciousness re-align with physical reality. Slowly, my senses re-connected and began to filter information back to me: the lingering scent of incense, the soothing flow of the meditative music that I had set to play in a loop, the spongy feel of the mat between my body and the hardwood floor, the slight chill in the room that raised gooseflesh over my arms. It was September, and morning, and my stomach informed me that I had not yet eaten breakfast.

Opening my eyes, I stretched, then rose to my feet. The room my housemate Arabella and I had designated for communication sessions with Thornebridge was sparsely decorated with a couple of small tables, a bowl for incense, a scattering of candles, a few carefully placed crystals, some calming prints framed on the walls, a small rock garden, and an iPod set up with a meditation playlist. It was simple and zen, intended to cultivate the kind of relaxation needed to put one’s self into a deep trance.

I turned off the iPod, blew out the candles and the incense, and left the room in the heart of the house, winding my way through corridors that never seemed to follow the same path. I had gotten lost on multiple occasions while trying to find my way through the less stable portions of the house, until I had learned to open my senses enough to navigate my way to the space Arabella and I lived day-to-day. 

I saw the door, and my senses told me it was the one that led to the mundane part of the house. It was always a different door, sometimes massive and intricately carved, sometimes simple and rustic. Today, it was narrow, arterial red, and half my height, sporting an ornate silver knob. I turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped out of the dizzying instability of Thornebridge Manor and into the dimensionally stable, comforting warmth of the house’s living space. 

The difference in energy always takes a moment or two to adjust to. It’s a little bit like waking up from a dream, as reality re-establishes itself around you, solid and fixed. After taking a few slow breaths and doing a little grounding exercise by placing my palm flat against a wall and feeling its solidity, I moved on, making my way to the kitchen. 

_________________________________________

The coffee tasted hot and sweet as I sipped it from my favorite old coffee mug, which depicted a calico cat similar in appearance to my own Nimue, batting playfully at a Victorian-style fairy. The house was strangely quiet and felt vast and empty; Arabella had left town to attend some sort of bookseller’s conference. Slowly, I ate a breakfast of eggs, biscuits, and fruit, as I held my battered, leatherbound notebook in my left hand and read over the notes I had written on this morning’s communication with Thornebridge. A well-worn deck of tarot cards, its colors faded and its edges tattered, rested beside the notebook.

I took a bite of scrambled eggs, set my fork down, and flipped through the cards, withdrawing the Tower, the Emperor, Temperance, and the Four of Pentacles, laying them out on the table beside my plate. Chewing thoughtfully, I studied the cards, static images embodying the living diorama I had seen in the communication room, but I came no closer to achieving clarity. The only thing I knew for certain was that someone was attacking Thornebridge, someone Arabella and I-- the Guardians of Thornebridge Manor-- had not yet seen or encountered.

That... was not good. There was an endless list of reasons why that was not good. But I still had precious little to go on. It would be nice, I thought, if the damn house would learn to speak English.

An alarm sounded on my phone, alerting me that it was time to get ready for work, so I put my plate in the dishwasher, returned to my bedroom to dress, made sure my cat and Arabella’s dog Ghost had plenty of fresh water, checked on Virgil the ferret in his little house, and hurried out the door to drive to the shop. There wasn’t a lot I could do until I had more information, and I certainly wasn’t going to figure out the puzzle sitting here all day.

_________________________________________

I own a little shop called Boreas Curios, Antiques, and Odditites. It’s a quaint little place, sharing a storefront with a pizza parlor and a jewelry store, and is situated directly across the street from Arabella’s place of business, an antique bookstore that she inherited from its former owner when he retired. It was something akin to kismet that the two of us spent years working in these places, across the street from one another, before we met for the first time through completely unrelated events. And it wasn’t for a lack of browsing each others’ shops either-- I love books, and Arabella is a bona fide pack rat and loves to collect all sorts of strange and wonderful things. And vice versa. We just always managed to visit when neither of us was in our respective shop.

The shop was slow throughout the morning, giving me time to sort through inventory and clean a little bit as I tried to shake the lingering feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I chalked it up to the vagaries of my communication session with Thornebridge and carried on. A few minutes to eleven, Violet breezed in through the front door, smiling brightly at me with her black-lipsticked lips as we greeted each other. Her hair was short and spiky, black tipped with blue, and she wore black-and-white striped stockings on her arms and legs, a green corset, a knee-length black tulle skirt, and a pair of worn old army boots. She waved at me with a black-fingernailed hand and disappeared into the back of the shop, re-emerging a short time later wearing a blue apron that absolutely clashed with her getup.

I didn’t mind her eccentric way of dressing; in fact, I felt it fit the atmosphere of the shop perfectly. She cashed in to her register, and then set about helping me sort through a box of mini-Furbies that had been programmed to say diabolical things. The store rang out with sinister phrases such as, “I am Lord Beelzebub, hear me rooooar!” and “Sacrifice your virgins on the altar of the Goat King!” for several minutes as we inserted batteries, cataloged everything in the system, and put the Furbies in a wire bin near the register. The Diabolical Furby Collection was Violet’s idea, and I thought it fit nicely in with the theme of Strange and Bizarre I had cultivated in the shop. After all, I kept a constant supply of haunted dolls on a shelf situated on the back wall. People loved creepy things. They always sold well.

Right around 1:45, just as the lunch rush had mostly dissipated, the sky went dark, not gradually, but in a quick fade, as if somebody had used a dimmer switch to turn off the sun, cloaking the world in night. 

Violet, looking up from where she was ringing up one of the last customers in the store, frowned. “Um. Evelyn?” She paused, then added, “Did somebody forget to pay the sunlight bill?” The joke fell flat as her voice trembled a bit. 

I was busy staring through the glass door, blinking in confusion. The slight uneasiness I had felt earlier amplified itself, evolving into the kind of dread that speeds up the heart rate and sends butterflies swarming through the stomach. Violet clearly felt the same, but it was probably just from the inexplicable celestial event. Right? 

“What in the blazes...” I murmured. Casting a glance at Violet and her equally confused and anxious customer, I strode across the shop and out the door, peering up at the sky, searching for the sun. Violet joined me a minute or two later, after shooing the customers out and locking the door.

“Is... is it an eclipse?” she asked, doubt slowing her words. I shook my head, but pulled my phone from my apron and began pulling up an online almanac to be sure.

“Probably not,” I said. “Wouldn’t have gone dark that quickly.” I scanned the almanac long enough to determine that there had been no eclipses predicted for the day, and then my phone went dark.

So did the rest of the block. All around us, the lights illuminating the buildings flickered out, plunging the world into heavy darkness. Even the cars on the street died, rolling to a stop. I heard the metallic clatter of a car wreck somewhere in the near distance, and somebody screamed.

The creeping dread flared into visceral, heart-pounding terror, and for a moment, I was lost in it. I wanted to fall to my knees, pull at my hair, and moan with it. I wanted to dig into the ground and hide from the darkness, to curl into myself, to lose myself to the fear, to be consumed by it. It coiled around me, a primal, atavistic horror that threatened to strangle the life from me. I was barely aware of Violet next to me, frozen and trembling with the same terror.

A long moment passed, and the dread eased of its own accord. It still lingered, pulsing softly on a psychic wavelength, but it no longer threatened to drive us mad. I found I had indeed fallen to the ground, and slowly got to my hands and knees, reaching out to help Violet to her feet. The girl was still shaking, her blue eyes wide in the gloom, but she let me stand her up and steady her.

“What was that?” she cried, but then seemed to realize how near to panic she was edging, and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. She leveled her gaze on me and said, “I’m going to guess you’ll be leaving the shop to me for a bit.”

I hadn’t ever told Violet about my other job, the one where I worked for the sentient spirit of a dimensionally transcendent and unstable house, but the girl wasn’t stupid. She’d picked up on the fact that I had a tendency to deal with the out-of-the-ordinary things that seemed so often to happen around me. I sighed and ran my hand through my short, wavy hair, a deep chestnut with hints of red and a stark contrast to the flowing silver locks of my Traveling form. 

I turned on my heels and strode around to my car, a 90s-era silver Accord parked in the employee-designated spaces in the parking lot. Violet followed. Unlocking the trunk with the key set I had in my jeans pocket, I removed the emergency bag I kept packed and ready. “Close the shop,” I told her, then frowned. I had been about to tell her to pack up and go home, but she lived several miles away and it seemed as if the cars had all died too. “Stay indoors, keep the doors locked, and watch for looters.”

“That baseball bat still under the counter?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, and paused. If that feeling of dread had been city-wide, it meant we’d be dealing with mass panic, and panicked people can be violent. “But don’t try to be heroic, okay? If anybody gets violent, just get on out of there. Find somewhere safe. There will probably be some sort of organizational effort to keep things under control, maybe a place for people to gather for shelter, a church or something. Try to find it if you can’t stay in the shop.”

“Gotcha.”

From the bag I removed a pair of silver rods, slender, about the length of my forearm, and etched with runes, then slung the bag over my shoulder. 

Then, taking a deep breath, I stepped into the darkness.

#not roleplay #ok to reblog but don't try to roleplay with it please! #so this is the first in what will hopefully turn into a series #in which i'll explore other tAoP characters as well #this chapter is a doozy at over 2600 words #other chapters will probably be shorter #maybe #next chapter will be from Harry's POV. #fic #Dark Days

[plotlinehotline]

"Overused” is Overused: Understanding Clichés and Tropes in Your Writing

I hate writing advice.

That’s my little tongue-in-cheek joke for this post, because the irony of what I’m doing literally as I type that statement is not lost on me. It’s true, though— I honestly think that advice is one of the most damaging things to a writer’s mindset. It makes them second-guess their methods, their ideas, and even whether they truly have what it takes to be a *~*writer*~* in the eyes of the rest of the world.

It’s a truly unfortunate thing, because it’s so important for writers to be able to share their experiences and successes. The problem is that these experiences get passed around in a game of It’s-Been-Ten-Years-Since-This-Essay-Was-Written Telephone, and the original intent of the advice (and sometimes its actual meaning!) gets lost along the way. They become these overarching blanket statements that offer broad limitations without reason or potential alternatives.

One of the greatest offenders of this is the idea that you ought to avoid clichés in writing. I’ve been part of online writing communities for a while now, and by far the most common concern I see is some variant of, “I’m thinking about doing [x], but I’m worried it’s too cliché”. It’s an epidemic amongst writers, and it absolutely infuriates me that so many writers have come to doubt their own work just because some vague internet grapevine has told them that clichés are to be avoided at all costs.

Because I’m so infuriated by this (and because I’m super extra and actually have a relevant platform on which to discuss this), I’m going to take some time to explain the actual meaning of this particular piece of “advice” and why it’s far less of a concern than you’ve been lead to believe.

To begin, it’s very important to address the fact that there’s a fundamental misunderstanding surrounding this idea. This starts with the fact that the terms cliché and trope are mistakenly thought to be synonymous, or otherwise become confused with one another. Before I move forward, I want to offer the proper definition for both.

A cliché is a particular phrase that’s been used often enough to become commonplace. In writing, they’re generally used to create a specific image or tone that we can take for granted that the reader will recognize.

She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. It was raining cats and dogs, but she still stood with her arms to the sky, laughing like she didn’t even notice. She turned to me and winked, and I felt my face go as red as a beet. In that moment, I knew that I’d give my right arm to be with her.

A trope is a convention used in writing to give meaning to aspects of your story. They’re used as storytelling shorthand to attach identifiable qualities to your plot and characters— recurring themes that exist throughout history to guide stories.

Examples of tropes include the hero’s journey, the character’s fatal flaw, the comic relief character, the hero with a dark past, and the Mom Friend.

I’ll be the first to admit that there are similarities between the two— both are used to help readers understand parts of your story, and tropes can be specific phrases as shown in the cliché example above. The key is to separate the two in your mind and think about them only by the definitions above.

It’s important to do this, because part of the central misunderstanding is that “cliché” is often used in daily life to describe ideas as a whole that have been overused (think of the “I’m holding up the tower!” pic that literally everyone takes at the Leaning Tower of Pisa). I get the confusion and concern here, I really do. The most important thing to remember is that clichés have a specific meaning when it comes to writing. No matter how often you may see a particular theme or character arc, it is and always will be a trope.

With that out of the way, I’d like to discuss why this should be good advice. The truth of the matter is that clichés should be avoided where possible because they give the impression of lazy writing. Writers and readers alike take the imagery for granted and rely on these tried-and-true phrases to add physicality to their prose instead of finding unique descriptors; while it certainly gets the point across, it comes across as more of a 2D picture from a magazine than a scene from the movie adaptation we all know our books are destined to have.

To illustrate this, let’s take a look at the example above with all of the clichés removed:

The world had never experienced a beauty like hers— neither had I. I just watched as she stood there, arms to the sky as the rain pelted her relentlessly, soaking into her clothes and hair. She smiled as it ran down her face, laughing at each raindrop, finally turning to me and winking. She could have just been blinking the water out of her eye, I don’t know, but my face was hot and I suddenly found it hard to look at her. I stared at my shoes, willing them to take a step for once so I could go and join her.

Clichés fall flat because they aren’t specific to you as a writer— they aren’t at all indicative of your unique style. Your story loses so much when it’s not told in your own voice, so you shouldn’t rely on old phrases just because you know people will automatically understand them.

While the argument could be made that tropes fall into this same category, I would point out that tropes serve a deeper purpose than clichés. Where a cliché would act as filler, a trope would act as a foundation. Tropes are tools (most frequently, structural tools) that guide the story through plot/character development and tonal themes to give your reader a general idea of what they’re signing up for when they read your story.

Example Time!

Say that you wanted to write someone a love poem. You do your research, sifting through decades of poems to pick out the best phrases and metaphors, and you end up with the following:

Your eyes are as deep as an oceans Your eyes shine like stars They’re like windows to your soul I get lost in them every time I look

The poem is essentially a cut-and-paste of phrases from every cheesy romance novel out there, and will most likely leave the object of your affections wondering why you’re so obsessed with their eyeballs.

Alternatively, you hand them this:

Roses are red, Violets are blue...

and things get a little more interesting. Sure, the opening to the poem is a cliché in and of itself, but it sets the stage for whatever you want to fill it with. You could go with something traditional and make it cutesy, you could subvert the trope by dropping the rhyme scheme for dramatic or comedic effect, you could even revive the old 2015 “gun” meme. The world is your oyster!

The point is, the poem hasn’t been written for you. Sure, it follows a similar structure to poems that have been written before, but where you take it is entirely up to you— the opening lines are simply the prompt to make way for your own creative license.

Let’s be real, here. 

I get that everyone wants to make something new and exciting that comes entirely from their own imagination. It’s the dream! The idea that anything we write could potentially be sourced back to an existing piece is super aggravating, and you don’t have to tell me how discouraging it is to have something that you’re genuinely proud of suddenly fall flat because someone says, “Hasn’t the teen dystopia thing been done to death?” or “Didn’t Star Trek do an episode like this?” or “Penney, this is just a Star Trek fanfiction with the names changed to Dirk and Spork, please stop.”

To be totally honest, there is not (nor will there ever be) a single piece of writing on this earth that’s 100% original. Everything is based off of a story that came before it, or had plots and characters that were cherry-picked from the millions of plots and characters that existed previously.

Even more honestly, people like it that way. Tropes help us to identify our favorite genres and characters, guide us to stories that we may like based on those preferences, and open our eyes to new stories and authors that follow those tropes in a slightly different way. 

In short, embrace your tropes. Learn to recognize them and how they can be used and reimagined, and build your story out of the wonderful things that come of that knowledge. Be like me and waste a billion hours in the rabbit hole that is TV Tropes!

Most importantly, write the way you want to write and don’t let anyone else tell you how to do it. They’ll have their time when you’re ready for peer review. Right now is your time to do as you please, ignore all writing advice you see online, make a few mistakes, and do it all over again because that’s what writers do! Get out there and make some beautiful, cliché-ridden, trope-y masterpieces.

Love, Penney

#ask p #cliche #cliches #tropes #literary tropes #tropes in literature #writing cliche #writing cliches #writing tropes #writing advice #writing tips

[git-writing-good]

Chapter 1

The first chapter of my WIP novel “Avatar Chronicles: Genesis”.

“We should introduce his wrist to the Welt,” suggested Balaghad, a lean and wiry guardsman. He withdrew the so-called Welt from its holster on his right hip, slapping the two-foot long rod of leather-wrapped iron against his open, gloved hand.

Despite the brandished rod, the man standing before Balaghad had eyes only for the sword sheathed opposite the Welt’s holster. In his dozen years as a career cutpurse, he had seen the blade used as often as the blunt on his peers.

“For snatching a maggoty loaf of bread?” The second guard, who held the cutpurse by the arms, scoffed. “I figured we might try the old ‘don’t let me see you stealing again’ bit. Why do you obsess yourself with the lashing over the tongue lashing?”

Balaghad sheathed his Welt with a grunt. “Well, there goes that threat. You needn’t break every thief’s wrist, Edain. Just a few. The rest learn by example.”

Edain released the cutpurse and shoved him aside. “Away with you, man. And mind your wandering fingers.”

The cutpurse backed slowly away from the pair of guards, his eyes darting between them. He registered their faces, shuddering slightly at Edain’s violet eyes. Though not unheard of, the deep, rich colour fell outside of the man’s concept of ‘normal’.

As he turned and dashed down the street, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake, another cloud caught Edain’s attention.

“Damn me to the Void and back!” He dragged a hand across his clean-shaven face, his tawny skin already glistening in the late-morning heat.

Balaghad followed his gaze and added his own colourful curses. “Smoke in the south-eastern merchant district. Yasha’s silky locks! This is what, the third riot this week?”

No sooner had he spoken than the south-eastern alarm bell began to peal a frantic cry for aid.

The pair of guards looked at each other with no lack of consternation. Though they were bedecked in undyed leather armour with green-enameled greaves and vambraces—and chainmail beneath all that—they suddenly felt exposed.

“First time I’ve heard a bell like that for a riot,” said Edain, his feet already leading the rest of him towards the smoke and the ruckus.

“Must be a big one, blasted parasites.”

“Honestly, Balaghad. How many of your own people were refugees decades ago? Blast it, how many still live in the streets?”

“That was a different war,” grumbled Balaghad, though his conviction wavered. “Terrian was ours to begin with, before you damned westerners took it from us.”

Edain refused to launch into an argument about taking and sharing, and who had the authority to do such. The war between the nations of Targus and Yashida for the dominion of the city Terrian was half a century expired, but the tensions had barely begun to lift.

The smoke, however, was doing a great deal of rising. Billowing, even.

“They must have lit a whole city block on fire!” said Edain. His breath caught as he rounded a corner and was nearly trampled by a score of fleeing citizens, their eyes glazed over in terror.

He and Balaghad shared another quick glance, then resumed their course at breakneck speed. Thus, they came upon the fiery ruin of a handful of merchants’ shops and homes. Thick, black smoke hung above the pyres, and above that, above even the forty-foot city walls, soared a dragon.

Black and crimson as the ruin of its passing, the beast swooped and twisted in the air with all the grace of a herd of elephants. Yet for all its gracelessness, the half-dozen ballistae atop the wall had yet to leave a mark on its shimmering scales. The giant crossbows, manned by archers seated behind the weapons, fired at regular intervals, their spear-like missiles soaring despite the trembling of the archers’ hands.

The dragon, an Angleer Wyrm from far to the north, was known to scholars as the deadliest of dragons. Its breath could melt stone in seconds, and its scales rendered most mortal weapons useless. The claws on all four of its legs could rend steel and stone, to say nothing of the row of massive fangs. To those on the ground, however, it was merely a hundred feet of dark, fiery death.

Balaghad’s brown skin, with red undertones common to the desert folk of Yashida, glistened with sweat and his eyes brimmed with the hint of tears. The brief run had little to do with either.

Spotting a handful of their comrades, Edain nodded towards them. “Go see if they’ve a crossbow or two to spare.”

Balaghad shook his head as Edain’s voice broke him from his nightmarish reverie. His gaze could not be torn from the dragon, but his junior guard commanding him was enough to catch his attention. “And where are you going, rookie?”

Edain smirked, though he had to fight to keep from trembling. “As the junior guard between the two of us, I ought to seek aid, eh?”

Balaghad snorted in laughter, though it almost came out as a sob. “Coward.”

They both took off at a jog, their hearts pounding and their lungs screaming for fresh air as thick smoke closed around them, its wispy tendrils as dark and deadly as the dragon’s claws.

As Balaghad met up with the other guards under a stone outcropping meant to shelter guards from rain, not dragonfire, Edain rushed straight for the wall as the dragon soared over it, preparing to dive at the ballistae.

He stopped in the shadow of one of the great weapons, panting hard. He tore off his right glove and ran his long, bare fingers down the wall. It took all his effort to focus, between his lack of breath and the shrieking dragon overhead.

With a sharp exhalation, he slammed the heel of his palm into the wall. A fine line of blue energy traced its way up the grey and tan stonework as Edain watched. When it reached the top of the wall, it shot up the base of the ballista, settling finally in the tip of the huge bolt mounted within.

“I hope no one saw that,” he muttered to himself. He crouched and rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. “How do people even fight these beasts without magic? These blasted archers hardly seem capable of taking down a mangled pheasant, much less a dragon.”

He wiped the sweat from his brow just as a gnarled, scaly head crested the wall. The dragon opened wide its jaws, issuing a gout of orange and blue flames. A broad swath of smaller buildings ignited in a flash, along with a pair of lurking guards, who had hoped to take the dragon unawares with their longbows. Their screams were as terrible as they were brief.

Several of the ballistae within range fired at the dragon. Only one missed, but for all the good they did, the others might as well have.

The dragon roared in defiance, sending a shudder down every spine throughout the southern half of Terrian. It spewed flames down upon buildings of stone, wood, and plaster, reducing them all to molten heaps.

A few brave guards fired longbows and crossbows from the ground or from rooftops, but the dragon paid them no heed. A gnat assaulting an elephant would pose a greater threat.

As the massive beast swung wide, making another pass at the wall, the last pair of ballistae let loose at it. One missed entirely—missed by a margin only explicable by the fainting of the man who had been manning it.

The other launched its bolt with perfect accuracy, striking the dragon just beneath its right wing where the scaly limb and the scaly body met in a slightly less-scaly joint. The steel tip buried itself deep in the dragon’s flesh, tearing sinew and tendons as it went.

With a cry of agony that threatened to sunder the skies, and a pitiful flap that sent it veering to the right, the mighty dragon plummeted. Shoulder-first it smashed into the wall, halfway down, then tumbled to the ground. Not one guard in the area managed to keep their feet. One fell from a rooftop perch, screaming as they fell, right until the cobblestone street broke their fall.

The dragon’s plunge and subsequent thrashing summoned a spider’s web of fissures up the wall, spreading from an elephant-sized crater.

On the ground, entire two-storey buildings were rendered to splinters, sending a deadly barrage of debris in a wide swath around the mad beast.

Edain pumped his fist and grunted in exultation as the remaining guards in the area charged the fallen dragon. It had ceased thrashing, and each guard dreamt of the glory and fame slaying the dragon would bring them.

Half of them lost their dreams—and their lives—as the dragon unleashed a new torrent of flame.

Of those bold enough to cower a moment longer, three were foolhardy enough to press on, albeit with a touch more caution. Everyone knew a dragon could only breathe fire every minute or so. No one knew how they had learned such a thing, in much the same way that no one knew how they learned every childhood game or bawdy poem for consecutive generations. Some things are simply known, after all.

Of the three, Edain and Balaghad were two. They each held a sword in hand, though whereas Edain’s was a double-edged, straight-bladed longsword issued by the city, Balaghad’s was a curve-bladed scimitar, which he was permitted to wield by grace of his mother’s standing among the merchant’s guild. Her regular donations to the city guard saw Balaghad receive a comfortable treatment, so far as guard duty went. Sadly, the dragon knew nothing of Balaghad’s protections or his mother’s fortunes.

The third guard was Gustav—a lightly tanned, barrel-chested man wielding a glaive in a white-knuckle grip. Like Balaghad, he had special permission to wield a weapon besides the city-issued longsword, though his leeway came from years of service, not bribes. His weapon, effectively a small sword at the end of a long shaft, granted him a bit of reach he was suddenly very grateful for. His short-cropped hair—as irascible as he was not—looked every bit a field of wild scrub grass as he ran. By virtue of his sandy blonde hair, his two-day shadow hardly showed.

As the other two pulled ahead, Edain cast a quick glance about. Satisfied that naught but skeletons and piles of ash could see him, he cast a quick spell on his sword, causing it to glow a slight blue, as had the enchanted ballista bolt. Then he cast another spell on himself, this one to improve his relationship with gravity.

Of his two companions, Edain wished fervently for Gustav to survive. While some saw Balaghad as a handsome man with a chiseled chest and sharp, angular features, Edain saw him only as an ass with a pointy nose and a weak chin. Gustav, however, had been his mentor throughout much of his year as a rookie guard, and the pair had become somewhat close, going even so far as to share an after-shift drink or two.

The pair got along quite well, yet not so well as the dragon got along with destruction. It acknowledged the three men charging it head-on by smashing a duplex home with its tail. That done, it lunged towards them with uncanny agility for a creature so large.

But as it ran, one of its foreclaws collapsed the ground floor of a small warehouse, sending the beast toppling to its side.

Gustav closed the distance and brought his polearm down towards the dragon’s neck as it struggled to regain its feet. The blade whistled as it tore through the sky, but barely managed to nick a scale. His arms, already quaking with fear, gave out on impact.

As Gustav stumbled backwards, his glaive clattering to the ground, Balaghad leapt in. He ducked low and brought his scimitar up in a swift arc, gouging the dragon’s flesh. A thin stream of blood spurted from the wound, splattering on his armour.

He dropped to the ground screaming and clawing at the disintegrating leather and melting steel beneath it. With blistering and bleeding fingers, he managed to free himself from the smoldering ruin, but not before the acid had burnt the thick, curly hair from his chest, along with his right nipple.

The dragon released a deep, guttural growl, and would have devoured the pair of guards, were it not for a screaming Edain charging headlong. He ran with dizzying speed, defying the laws of physics by sheer force of will.

Gustav dragged Balaghad back behind a tumbledown wall as Edain closed in. A scaly head the size of a war horse smashed into the street as he leapt, narrowly dodging the attack. The cobblestones shattered, sending a wave of debris into the air, shrouding him in a corona of dust and rocks.

He landed on the dragon’s head with sword in hand. Before the dragon had a chance to react to this affront, Edain plunged his enchanted weapon into a great, yellow eye.

The dragon thrashed and screeched as the blade burrowed deeper, egged on by Edain’s homing spell. As it tossed its head, Edain lost his grip on the eye-jelly-slicked hilt and went flying through the air, wondering briefly if this was how a dragon felt, mid-flight.

His gravity-defying spell absorbed the worst of the impact as he crashed into the wooden wall of an unburnt home, but it was more than enough to wind him and break a few bones. He wondered then if this was how the dragon had felt, crashing into the city wall. Then gravity took hold.

The fall was not long, but it was long enough.

Edain smashed into the ground, crushing a smoldering shrub beneath him. He coughed up a bit of blood, groaned meekly, then lost consciousness.

Meanwhile, Gustav was busy slashing at the dragon’s flailing head with his polearm, even as Edain’s enchanted blade continued its gruesome quest. He scored a few cuts, but the sudden severing of the dragon’s brain stem was what did the beast in.

If the dragon had been fearsome in life, it was an absolute terror in death. Debris—comprised mostly of chunks of homes and streets—rained down around the flailing beast, crushing more streets and homes which, in turn, exploded into new projectiles. Other than the thrashing dragon itself, Gustav and Balaghad were relatively safe nearer to it than most.

Once the dragon ceased its death throes, people swarmed in the streets. Those not well-versed in magic marveled at the force required to bury a sword past the hilt in a dragon’s eye.

Following the Praetors’ crack-down on mages over a decade ago, few in Terrian were even poorly-versed in magic. Save those the Praetors deemed ‘safe and secure practitioners’.

One such practitioner and her apprentice—an herbalist with no magical aptitude—tended to Edain while his comrades gaped at the dragon’s corpse. They had battled with everything they had, but neither had expected to survive the day.

Even as people clotted the streets, ravens and crows filled the skies. Every corvid worth its feathers knows there’s no better meal than the roasted flesh a dragon leaves in its wake—whatever it doesn’t reduce to ash. Dragons, for their part, appreciate both the crowd of attendants and their panache at finding things that glitter—including unmelted eyes.

Today proved a rare treat for the birds—not often did they sup on dragon’s-eye jelly. While some gnawed and tore at the fallen dragon, most pecked at the smaller, mundane corpses.

Three huge ravens eyed Edain with great interest, but kept their distance. It was unclear whether this was due to his slight twitching, or the foul-smelling unguent which was currently being spread across his sides and back.

#my writing #writing #writblr #writeblr #creative writing #git-writing-good #ACG

[pharawee]

Remember The Hidden Moon pilot trailer?

It starred Benjamin Brasier and Folk Touch as Mas and Khen but apparently that was literally only for the pilot and they then used the hype to do another open casting.

Well, apparently I totally missed that they found their official Mas and Khen now, along all of the rest of the main cast. Khen will be played by Kinn Thanachai and Mas by David Matthew Roberts.

The Hidden Moon is based on a novel by Violet Rain who also wrote I Feel You Linger in the Air so expect bittersweetness, heartbreak and a beautiful historical setting.

#the hidden moon #the hidden moon the series #nothing against the new mains #but i really loved the idea of ben and folk 😭 #and i still think the whole casting thing was super scummy #also seems like we'll be getting unhappy historical sapphics again :( #but i love violet rain's novel so i'm in #jane watches stuff #Youtube

[chitrakullkarni]

Polyurea Coating Market Share, Research Methodology & Revenue Analysis, 2024

The global Polyurea Coating Market size is expected to value at USD 1.48 billion by 2024. The market is subject to witness a substantial growth due to their numerous benefits over traditional coating such as epoxy, fiberglass, and paints. Some of important properties of polyurea coating include lower setting time, resistance to adverse atmospheric conditions and high mechanical strength.

In addition, polyurea coating offer additional advantages such as high standards of corrosion protection, waterproofing, and chemical & structural enhancement. These factors are expected to drive the growth of polyurea coating industry over the forecast period. Globally, the polyurea coating market is predicted to grow at CAGR of 12% in the forecast period, providing numerous opportunities for market players to invest for research and development in the market.

Furthermore, polyurea coating tends to exhibit advanced set of characteristics in spray applications such as higher mechanical, thermal, and chemical resistance, short curing and setting time. Higher durability associated with polyurea coating in comparison with its substitutes is anticipated to foster market growth over the next seven years. The raw materials required to manufacture polyurea coating include aromatic isocyanate-based and aliphatic isocyanate-based. Polyurea coating is used along with technologies such as spraying, pouring and hand mixing.

Increasing demand for intumescent coating from building & construction industry owing to its numerous benefits such as higher durability and attractive appearances of the surfaces, thus driving the growth of polyurea coatings industry in the recent years. Additionally, polyurea coating also provides protection against harsh weather and external environmental factors such as ultra-violet radiation, high temperatures, acid rain, and pollution particles. These factors are predicted to boost market demand for polyurea coating during the forecast period.

Request free sample to get a complete analysis of top-performing companies @ https://www.millioninsights.com/industry-reports/polyurea-coating-market/request-sample

The recent technological advancement and development of novel products has led to addition of superior properties such as protection from moisture, corrosion resistance, bacteria and heat resistance, thus escalating market progress, in the recent years. Growing need for environmental-friendly and water resistance solutions coupled with stringent laws and regulation by regional governments across the globe are expected to boost the market growth of polyurea coating over the forecast period. Moreover, recent joint ventures, mergers and partnerships among number of major manufactures and vendors along with local industry players are anticipated to amplify market value in the upcoming years.

The polyurea coating market is broadly categorized into three major segments based on the application type such as building & construction, transportation, and industrial. The building & construction sector is considered as one of the fastest growing segment in the polyurea coating industry with substantial revenue generation in the last few years. Growing popularity of polyurea coating in the building & construction segment is attributed to the increasing application in waterproofing duet to their high humidity resistance. The industrial segment has also witnessed substantial growth owing to the rapid industrialization in the Asia Pacific region.

The polyurea coatings market is divided by region as North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, Latin America and Africa. North America has shown major growth in recent years owing to the rise in the implementation of latest technologies in building & construction sector, increase in the number of research & development activities, and existence of well-established industrial infrastructure in the region. Asia-Pacific region is predicted to hold major market share in the polyurea coating with massive growth in forecast period. Countries such as India, China, Malaysia and Singapore are leading the Asia-Pacific market with strong economic growth in the region, rapid industrialization and significant investment by leading industry players considering potential growth opportunities in the region.

The key players in the polyurea coating industry are PPG Industries, Inc., The Sherwin-Williams Company, Nukote Coating Systems, Inc., Versaflex Inc., Specialty Products Inc., Armorthane Inc., Wasser Co., Rhino Linings Co., Kukdo Chemical Co., Ltd., Lonza Group AG, Albemarle Co., Huntsman Co., BASF SE, and Covestro, Inc.

Browse Related Category Research Reports @ https://industryanalysisandnews.wordpress.com/

[benotafraid]

Genesis

Following is the long awaited, first half of the chapter Genesis from my novel, Be Not Afraid; Memoirs of the Bound. This teaser should speak for itself. Follow the main characters memories of the Heavens and key historical events, but start off with their take of the Early Earth.

I hope you all enjoy! If you’re interested in finding out more, feel free to follow here, or consider becoming a patron on Patreon, where for just $1 (£0.77 or €0.85) a month you can gain access to the FULL first chapter Genesis (four times the length of this excerpt!) and many, many more bonus features. And, as always, thank you all so much!

I remember a time when the Earth was without humans; O what a time that was. 

I remember their beginning, and I remember long before. I remember watching from home through the Asterium, a fancy observatory more or less, at a cloud of celestial debris that one day would be the entire star system I now, albeit reluctantly, name home. There was a time when I could walk across the surface of a planet you would call hellish; when the ground underfoot was burning and a molten ocean of all manner of metal, and when the frigid breeze reeked of brimstone and ammoniac salt. I remember walking along ridges with erupting fire and molten rock, letting the subterranean heat soothe my aching soles as the weak sunlight struggled to heat my back.

The sky was a thick admiral blue like seashells when the noon was high, and deep violet when the sun was setting. Dazzling meteorites broke the atmosphere frequently, it made visiting here pretty funny, I’d see angels without premonition standing right where a meteor was burning up in the atmosphere above, and watch fragmented meteorites pelted down on them. There was a majesty unmatched, however; one has not seen something as magnificent as a meteor breaking the atmosphere and imploding into a million tiny shards, an auburn shadow cast onto the indigo sky. It was a rain of which I was partial to, truly.

This was a planet of which I was very fond. It reminded me of my home when it was not long from its nascency. I’m not too prideful to admit I was disappointed when this burning world was selected for the terraforming process.

 It’s not a short process, you see. It involves a lot of waiting, and very little interference from any observers. To beings who transcended time, not merely looking away for a few instances and seeing the stellar landscape change, but remaining and waiting for the right opportunity, the right moment - now that was a game I was never good at. Time slipped from me, not merely years but millenia gone in just an instance.

An undifferentiated planet like Earth, its breath bitter and its heart full of rage, can be soothed and made gentle - the screaming kindled to a song. As much as I despised the journey, the product is beautiful.

 Where we walk, the world reaches up to meet us. At the feet of seraphim incite flames, at the feet of elim trees spring forth - and it is just that, which was used to cultivate life. The first step meant cleansing the world of all contaminants. When the planet is pure, one of the choirs is selected and a part of them is set to the planet to grow. That way, all life is new, with something alike us at its core. Not long after Earth was chosen, all denizens were commanded to leave it and return home. Few returned more reluctant than I, but I knew better than to risk challenging this of all laws.

We are not to interfere, except to make challenges for life, so only the most suited may succeed. Not just anyone, though, each of us with each set of skills may appeal to orchestrate an obstacle, or are commanded to do so by the council. Laws are set, and set into motion. For billions of years, we controlled it - so many tiny things, pulling the strings of fate. Wasn’t the first, and time draws on ever longer.

I wanted to visit, and watch as the planet become its own, but once terraforming begun, it wasn’t until life was close to us that a being of any Heaven could set foot upon the world.

 I imagine now you would like to know of my home? Since I have spoken so surreally of yours. It is a place of beauty, one that many of your kind aspire to one day witness, and dream of indefinitely; but don’t worry, I dream of it too. Heaven is a vast place, but not a single one, either: there are nine great Halls, nine planets, to which Heaven is composed of. Of all those with memories of Heaven, or scholars who discuss it, very few know of the Halls, and those that do have a great confusion. Shamayim is the first Heaven, at the furthest gate from Earth, though Gnostics think it is closest, this is very false. I know this because I lived there.

You know those days when the clouds are thick, the sun isn’t too bright but the sky is just like a sheet of paper, vast and unbroken white? The sun is a shining white disk that only just breaks through the clouds; and at night, it’s black with patches of great white clouds that make the stars shine so much brighter? That was my sky, my home, back at Shamayim. That will always be my sky.

Shamayim was not a massively early planet, it was made from the remains of many stars, and as such, was rich with metals and its core was heavy. The surface was littered with crystals, ores and chunks of stone formed naturally. A crystallographer’s dreams would be filled in Shamayim, one could go for a casual stroll and pick up a fist-sized gem of immeasurable value if on Earth. Plantlife on Shamayim was rather hardy, adapted to muted but blinding sunlight, large regions without much water and aggressive predation - many were thick with a brittle and spiked covering, bitter tasting and with interlocking wide-spread roots. Shamayim was much unlike the human envisionment of any Heavenly abode before the Falling… oh, the Falling, I’ll… I will tell you about the Falling later.

 Arguably, as of yet the only important thing you need to know about it is that after, a substance that beforehand was incredibly rare, became suddenly ubiquitous. The only monuments of note made of it were towers, erected in the largest city of each Hall, aside from Shamayim, there were two. They reached as tall as each archangel in full form, up to seventy seven thousand feet from the base. They were unparalleled, a symbol of God, his sons, and their omnipresent power; along with the desire of all angels to join God, in hyperuranion topon, in Moksha, in Nirvana, without separation a part of the Lord God.

Only a decade or so after The Falling, each capital to each Hall was centered with a giant building of some kind, Shamayim’s being the Empyrean - the Seat of God, and at any time eight angels would be left in stewardship of the seat, maintaining the building, and all manners of it.

The abode of the Empyrean was made into more of a city, streets arching outwards paved with the same pearlescent stone, buildings of all manner erected around the monument, smaller towers and the homes of angels too. All angels within the boundaries of the Empyrean Square were to wear garnered robes, white, in remembrance for all who died during the Uprising, with a trim matching each angel's’ wing feathers; it was a distasteful show of conformity, designating us by choir, even from a distance. I guess at the time you don’t always notice these things, it was later that I began to learn.

The Empyrean Square was a sombre place, of devotion purely to our Father, a morose remembrance to the price of rebellion. The buildings were built with gold filigree inset with onyx, hematite and rich tourmalines, with occasional monuments of large rubies and garnets. The streets were paved with blades burning as torches. Despite crystals and pyre upon pyre, the most surreal feature of Shamayim, was the golden water. You seldom saw them, but travelling from the capital, the rich everglade rivers would come into sight, and soon enough, the horizon would be streaked and blonde seas would span across the view.  Not unlike Earth, with blue seas and blue skies, when the blanket clouds parted they revealed the sky hue to be a silky, sweet orange reflecting below.

To me, as I sit on this blue rock, grass staining the fabric of my trousers green, I look up to the sky and see not my sun Shamsi peeking through the firmament, but a foreign yellow star on a canvas of cobalt blue, and it stabs a blade within my ribs to tear at my heart, saying; ‘this is not your home, this will never be your home.’

My home was gold gilded on pearls and burning bright. My heaven was a beautiful, beautiful place.

I miss it every day.

 It must be weird, hearing only of the highest and furthest Heaven, the most far removed from all the things you hold close. Hit the ground running, I guess. In Shamayim, as I said, you wouldn’t find blue skies, you wouldn’t find pumpkin spice lattes, Walmarts or Christmas decorations. Cities would rise to the sky randomly, branching through the air as if there were no ground.

Shamayim had beaches, like Arrad, but no blue sea. The plants weren’t often green, they sprung from the ground bristly as purples and indigos, per Shamsi’s yellow-looking light shining unbridled by archaea. Probably the only place in all of the vast Heavens a human would feel home, would be the Library, home of the raphaim.

Shamayim was the abode of the seraphim mainly, the burning ones, the challengers, the angels of fire. Raquia, the home of water angels, you’d feel at home, the place covered in the Library with its rare surface communities.

I wish I could tell you that we had a perfect, commune-based system in which all were cared for in equal-measure. I can’t. The nine Heavens were ruled unevenly of the nine Aeon, with princes ruling as their fathers substitute when off-planet - but because of this, each Heaven was a kingdom, to a king in stewardship for God. The Aeons were powerful, old and respected. Their progeny rulers in stead, born into wealth and respect; some angels, though, were born without a home, without a great deal of anything at all. In Shamayim this was relatively rare, they were generally taken in and looked after, our adoption and foster systems were stellar; but in Raquia, the abode of the water angels, this wasn’t so much the case.

 Raquia, the second Heaven, I never knew so intimately.

There were times I had visited it, times I saw it before the War, but it was encroaching upon it. Memories of the place dwindle few and far between the ones of Machonon, let alone Shamayim. I, think I’ll have to tell you about those later, unfortunately. Raquia after the War was incomparably different. The ‘monument’ erected in Raquia practically covered it, covered the ground in stone like Earth did with concrete. Raquia erected The Library. Now, don’t get me wrong, The Library was a beautiful place, but when faced with a reality where it was all you could see, you have to love it. Very rarely did anyone venture out of it, very rarely was anyone allowed.

You may think it weird, having a whole world wrapped in books, values in knowledge wrapped up in scrolls; but for many of us it was home.

#me #my posts #writing #excerpt #teaser #autistic writers #angelic #angels #be not afraid #novel

[ninjaaa-go]

The rain came from nowhere. The sunny, blue skies suddenly clouded over with heavy grey sheets, blocking out the light and giving the world a dark, overcast shadowing. Soon, a drizzle started trickling down to the dreary world below. In no time, what was merely a steady drip turned to a downpour, the skies opening up their torrent to the earth. Everything was turned cold and heavy, drenched with the pouring, grey rain.

Caught in the rain, Hanabi paced down the deserted sidewalks with a resigned sort of weariness. There was no hope of getting home with any semblance of dryness left, so she had given in to the rain. Still, her heels dragged on the wet cement, the dreary atmosphere sapping her energy and slowing her steps. Rainy days were meant for settling down with tea and a good book, not dragging yourself through empty streets in a soaked school uniform.

Letting out a quiet huff, Hanabi shifted her bag on her shoulder, uncomfortable from where it rubbed at her wet shirt. Still a long walk from home, Hanabi let her thoughts turn to other alternatives. There was no way she could stop at a cafe to wait out the rain looking the way she did, sopping wet and dripping. All the same, she really didn't want to keep dragging on through the storm. After a moment, she remembered that Mugi's apartment was closer than her own, just a few streets away. Turning down a new street to head that way, Hanabi brushed the hair away from where it stuck and matted to her cheek. She tucked it back behind her ear, wind pulling at the stray pieces.

Not far in the distance, she could pick out Mugi's apartment complex, rising above some of the shorter buildings against the dark, heavy skyline. Hanabi walked through the nearly empty streets, only occasionally passing the odd person scurrying out from a shop, head ducked beneath an umbrella. Looking down at her drenched and wrinkled skirt, the way the fabric darkened and clung to her skin, Hanabi couldn't help but envy them, missing her own umbrella. The thought of buying a cheap one for the walk home had crossed her mind, but at that point, she was already throughly wet, the damp cold soaking into her bones.

Glad for the break from the relentless downpour, Hanabi stepped under the cover of the apartment complex, following the familiar path to Mugi's door. With a soft knock, Hanabi stood and waited, hoping to get out of the wind and cold. A moment later, the door swung open, Mugi standing in the threshold, already changed out of his school uniform. Giving her an appraising look, Mugi swept his gaze over her soaked, limp outfit.

"Can I stay here?" Hanabi asked, voice sounding quiet and small against the pounding of rain against the street.

"Until the rain stops?" Mugi questioned.

"Yeah," Hanabi replied with a light nod, reaching up the wring out the excess water from her hair.

Stepping aside, Mugi let her inside, closing the door to the wet, dreary world. Even so, the quiet din of rain on the roof still gave an atmospheric kind of feel. Kicking off her muddied shoes, Hanabi stayed where she stood, already leaving a puddle from the rainwater dripping off her skirt. The water pooled and collected by her socks, sitting atop the tile.

"You should go take a warm shower and change into some dry clothes," Mugi suggested. "You'll catch a cold," he added, bringing a towel for her to dry off a bit with.

Nodding, Hanabi set her bag by her feet, taking the towel. She did her best to dry some of the water so she wouldn't track it down his hall. Tossing the dampened towel around her neck, she headed to the bathroom. Hanabi slid the door shut behind her before discarding the towel off to the side, her socks following not far behind. Soon, the rest of her clothes joined them in a heap and she turned on the water, waiting for the spray to warm. Once the water was hot and steam billowed up, she stepped under it. Somehow, despite their similarities, tilting her face up to the hot spray of water from the shower felt so good, yet the cold rain running down her back was miserable.

Finishing her shower, Hanabi turned the water off. She dried off, finding the clothes Mugi had left where her wet clothes had been taken, presumably hung out to dry. Picking up the thick, grey sweatshirt he had set out, she pulled it over her head. It wasn't a bad fit, though a bit too big. There were a pair of black shorts as well that Hanabi slipped into, running her fingers through her hair to loosen the tangles.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she walked back to Mugi's room, the flooring cold against her bare feet. When she walked in, she found his eyes fixed on her while he sat on the edge of his bed. There was a book open in his hands, but it looked long forgotten, the pages turned down towards the bed. There was something about his watchful gaze, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, that she couldn't quite place, but the space suddenly felt intimate and close, even when she froze at the opposite side of the room.

"What is it?" Hanabi asked, curiousity edging into her voice.

"The walls are too thin," Mugi muttered, running a hand back through his tousled blonde hair. Seeing the confused expression on Hanabi's face, he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "I could hear everything," he clarified, mind drifting back to the image that his mind had so mercilessly created.

Once she had gone into the bathroom and he had picked out clothes for her to change into, he returned to his room, picking up the novel he had been reading before she came. Though, it proved incredibly hard to focus, every sound from the bathroom carrying through the wall. He could hear her shimmying from her clothes, the slick rustle of wet fabric. The water came on with the squeak of the faucet, the spray raining down on the tile flooring. Images of Hanabi, skin bare and hair falling messily down to her shoulders, flickered across his mind, water cascading over her skin. Attempting to shut out the distraction, Mugi held his book closer to his face, forcing his eyes to skim over the words. It really was no use, though. Eventually, the shower clicked off and he could almost see the way she would stand, plumes of steam rising up around her, beads of water dripping down her pale skin. Too attuned to every sound, he listened to her towel off, eventually pulling on his clothes and walking out to his room with quiet footsteps.

"That sounds kind of dirty," Hanabi mused, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Catching the way Mugi's eyes followed her, locking on her thin frame, Hanabi let a smirk pull at her lips. His sweatshirt slipped over her shoulder, exposing fair skin.

Seating herself in Mugi's lap, straddling his legs with her own, Hanabi pressed her forehead against his. Violet eyes caught amber ones in her intense gaze, drawing Mugi in. In a moment, his arms wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her in closer while his lips found her jaw. He pressed a kiss to her soft skin, the clean scent of soap and shampoo tangling in his lungs. There was something about the way she looked dressed in his clothes, hair spilling to her shoulders in messy waves, that had him entranced.

Hanabi's breathy moan joined the sound of raindrops on the roof when Mugi nudged her chin up, lips moving to the underside of her jaw then down the column of her throat. Her hands slid from where they were settled at his waist, coming up to rest at the base of his neck, pulling him closer. Eyes fluttering shut, Hanabi let another quiet moan escape her when Mugi's kisses dipped beneath her collarbone, taking advantage of the way his sweatshirt hung loose on her frame, slipping off one shoulder.

"Mugi," Hanabi murmured, dipping her head so her breath came in a warm puff against Mugi's ear. The sensation made him stutter in his affections before refocusing his efforts. A flare of possessiveness rose up in his stomach, something about the way Hanabi said his name while the scent of his soap clung to her skin and she wore his clothes stirring up the emotion. Arms wrapping tighter around her middle, Mugi pulled her flush against him, teeth grazing her milky skin in a way that made a wanting whimper rise in her throat. His touch had always had the ability to make her melt, reduced to putty beneath his hands, his lips.

Cheeks flushing pink at the thought, Hanabi gently pushed back against Mugi's shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of control. Whenever he kissed her, the dizzying rush of pleasure and adrenaline made her stomach flutter and her head feel fuzzy, making her give in to his affections. Mugi was intoxicating.

Confused amber eyes met Hanabi's and she buried her head in the crook of his neck, trying to slow the excited beat of her heart and make her breaths come flat and even. She only came here to wait out the rain. If Mugi kept kissing her the way he had been, sweet yet possessive and hungry, she'd end up spending the night, lost in her desires.

"I just took a shower, don't get me all worked up and sweaty," Hanabi attempted to tease, but her voice betrayed her, a trembling want replacing her intended playfulness.

Arms loosening from around her waist, Mugi let out a breath, one hand gently lifting Hanabi's head from where it was still buried in the crook of his neck. With a hand on her jaw, he tilted her head up so his gaze met hers. There was an undeniable sort of tension in the air, heavy and thick.

"Don't make me hold back when you look so pretty," Mugi said, voice low and rough, a hint of longing lacing the words. A shiver crept down Hanabi's spine at his tone, a surge of heat blooming low in her stomach. Chest tightening, Hanabi curled her fingers in the fabric over her fluttering heart. Why did he say things like that? Things that made her want to kiss him until she forgot her name.

Hanabi pulled in a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the way her nerves ached with the need to touch him, the way her skin felt like ice, desperate to melt against the heat of him. The fact that she was still straddling his lap did ease to help the desire pulsing in her veins. "I'm holding back too," Hanabi murmured, voice a near whisper, pressing her forehead to his while her eyes fell closed.

Through the foggy haze of longing, she realized that the muffled din of rain was gone, meaning she could go home. The thought made her dizzy, stomach clenching uncomfortably. Fighting her mind, every fiber of her being craved Mugi's touch. Following her better judgement, Hanabi leaned away, slipping off of his lap and stepping back. Briefly breaking away from Mugi's gaze, she threw a glance out the window. Her heart sunk at the sight of sun peering out through the clouds, the earlier downpour nowhere to be found.

"I should get home," Hanabi said quietly, taking another reluctant step back.

Doing his best to shake off the longing haze, Mugi silently stood from his bed, brushing past Hanabi to grab her drying uniform. He met Hanabi by the door with her still wet clothes in a bag, watching her slip on her shoes. Careful to avoid his hands, Hanabi took her clothes and turned towards the door, laying a hand on the knob. She took a look over her shoulder, violet eyes subdued.

"I'll see you at school," Mugi offered, gaze falling down to his socks.

"Yeah," Hanabi agreed quietly before slipping out of the apartment, door clicking shut behind her.

Leaning back against the cool metal, Hanabi pressed a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. The feeling of Mugi's lips on her skin was burned in the front of her mind, making her heart beat faster. Steeling herself, Hanabi pushed off of the door and paced down the hall, starting her walk home. Glancing up at the sky, she figured she was the only person who would have preferred the sun stay tucked behind the clouds all day. Instead, it shone brightly through the clouds, warming her skin and cooling the frustrated heat in the pit of her stomach.

Next time, Hanabi resolved, she would sacrifice her pride and lose herself in Mugi's kisses. It didn't matter if her head got pulled beneath the water. She had been drowning in him all along.

#hanabi x mugi #hanabi yasuraoka #mugi awaya #scums wish #kuzu no honkai #writing #fanfiction

[just-another-book-blog112]

#Bookie-Challenge TBR

Hey everyone! Here is my TBR for the #bookie-challenge. Below i will have the blurb for each book if any of you are interested in my list. 

A Book over 300 pages. The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. (479 pages)   

Imagine you can hear everything the town of men say about you. And they can hear everything you think. Imagine you don't fit into their plans. Todd Hewitt is just one month away from the birthday that will make him a man. But his town has been keeping secrets from him. Secrets that are going to force him to run. 

The second book in a series. The Ask And the Answer by Patrick Ness. (516 pages) 

We were in the square, in the square where I'd run, holding her, carrying her, telling her to stay alive, stay alive till we got safe, till we got to Haven so I could save her - But there weren't no safety, no safety at all, there was just him and his men... Fleeing before a relentless army, Todd has carried a desperately wounded Viola right into the hands of their worst enemy, Mayor Prentiss. Immediately separated from Viola and imprisoned, Todd is forced to learn the ways of the Mayor's new order. But what secrets are hiding just outside of town? And where is Viola? Is she even still alive? And who are the mysterious Answer? And then, one day, the bombs begin to explode... "The Ask and the Answer" is a tense, shocking and deeply moving novel of resistance under the most extreme pressure. This is the second title in the "Chaos Walking" trilogy 

A book with the colour blue on the cover. All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven  (378 pages)

Theodore Finch is fascinated by death, and he constantly thinks of ways he might kill himself. But each time, something good, no matter how small, stops him. Violet Markey lives for the future, counting the days until graduation, when she can escape her Indiana town and her aching grief in the wake of her sister’s recent death. When Finch and Violet meet on the ledge of the bell tower at school, it’s unclear who saves whom. And when they pair up on a project to discover the “natural wonders” of their state, both Finch and Violet make more important discoveries: It’s only with Violet that Finch can be himself—a weird, funny, live-out-loud guy who’s not such a freak after all. And it’s only with Finch that Violet can forget to count away the days and start living them. But as Violet’s world grows, Finch’s begins to shrink. This is an intense, gripping novel perfect for fans of Jay Asher, Rainbow Rowell, John Green, Gayle Forman, and Jenny Downham from a talented new voice in YA, Jennifer Niven. 

A book with romance involved. Finding Sky by Joss Stirling (308 pages)

You have half our gifts, I have the other . . . When English girl Sky, catches a glimpse of bad boy Zed in her new American high school, she can't get him out of her head. He talks to her with his thoughts. He reads her mind. He is the boy she will love for ever. Dark shadows stalk her past but a new evil threatens her future. Sky must face the dark even if it means losing her heart 

A short Story. A Deeper Love by Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson (Pages=unknown)

It is only three years since Tessa Gray lost her beloved husband William Herondale, and she is searching for a reason to live, trying to find the path of being a warlock with the guidance of her friend Catarina Loss. World War II rains down destruction on their world, and Tessa and Catarina become nurses who make bargains at the Shadow Market for enchantments to help suffering mundanes. But can Brother Zachariah bear to see the woman he loves risk her life, or might he consider breaking sacred vows to save her from loneliness?

A Historical Novel. The Tattooist Of Auschwitz by Heather Morris (228 pages)

The Tattooist of Auschwitz is based on the true story of Lale and Gita Sokolov, two Slovakian Jews who survived Auschwitz and eventually made their home in Australia. In that terrible place, Lale was given the job of tattooing the prisoners marked for survival—literally scratching numbers into his fellow victims' arms in indelible ink to create what would become one of the most potent symbols of the Holocaust. Lale used the infinitesimal freedom of movement that this position awarded him to exchange jewels and money taken from murdered Jews for food to keep others alive. If he had been caught, he would have been killed; many owed him their survival. 

A Classic. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak(553 Pages)

Trying to make sense of the horrors of World War II, Death relates the story of Liesel--a young German girl whose book-stealing and story-telling talents help sustain her family and the Jewish man they are hiding, as well as their neighbors.

So that is my TBR List for the the month of August. I don’t know how many of these books I will get around too or in what order I will read them but I will do my best to get as many finished as possible

#bookie-challenge #books #readathon #long reads

[altimys]

Winter 2018 anime reviews

Hello, hello. This is a follow-up post to my initial impressions post. I’ll detail how my perception of the animes changed over the season.

Also note that I will not review Violet Evergarden since I’m way too far behind on it. I’ll finish it sometime in the next season once I’m free.

Dropped Animes

The ones that were unbearable.

Citrus

3/10

Like mentioned in the post from the beginning of the season, it just had this unrealistic, trope-driven, incest (but not really) story. Mostly style and little substance, but not even my style. Well, do take this with a grain of salt. I didn’t even finish the first episode.

Pop Team Epic

7/10

I definitely appreciate the experimental and sarcastic nature of this anime. But it wasn’t really worth spending an extra 15 minutes to watch the same thing a second time, especially since I didn’t find all the skits funny. I probably would’ve watched it if they were broken into seven minute segments.

Sanrio Boys

5/10

Too cheesy. Thanks for the “be yourself” message, but I’m not really interested in bishounens parading this every episode. The protagonist’s broken relationship with their grandmother as a sad backstory made me facepalm very hard. If you had advertised this to me about 6 years ago, I may have gobbled it up, but nowadays it’s not my taste.

Darling in the Franxx

5/10

I didn’t pick it back up, and I didn’t really see anything major from twitter or tumblr, except for gifs of the pink haired girl being with her sexy-cute charm. Y’know, the kind of charm where she’s designed to be appealing in a sexy, vampiric way, but she’s doing something cute like licking her fingers after eating a slice of meat or something. Normally I’d not mind this so much, but remembering how typical the protag was, it definitely gave off the manic pixie dream girl vibes. Art and animation I saw was great though! Unfortunately.

Osomatsu-san

5/10

Skits really fell flat this season. I knew that S2 would lose some drive after the stunt they pulled for the finale of S1, but a lot of skits were utter nonsense. I enjoyed the ones where they experimented with the complexities of each character’s personalities (i.e. Choromatsu and Ichimatsu’s awkward interactions), but it was like wading through a swamp to get a chuckle. I watched most of the season then dropped it, since it wasn’t really worth spending time not having fun.

Mediocre Anime

I don’t know why I watched these but I did.

Garo Vanishing Line

3/10

The story was killing me so much in the end that I would multitask when watching it, and I’m not a natural multitasker. It was just bad writing. Nothing really made sense, and it was quite predictable. Like Sword’s sister came out of nowhere (after she died for Sword’s sad backstory) and was suddenly had HACKER SKILLZ. And I was almost positive that in S1, Sophie’s brother was taken away from her by force, not him wanting to join the El Dorado project. Whatever, does it even matter? The best thing of the season was probably Luke getting a haircut and ditching that awful trenchcoat. Do not recommend.

Touken Ranbu Hanamaru

6/10

Guilty pleasure of the season. Still managed to enjoy the nonsense, with the musicals, and these bishounen and moeblobs being one-dimensional. I did appreciate some of the character interactions and the references to Katsugeki Touken Ranbu, but with these kinds of animes, I really can’t say it’s quality. It’s meant to be aimed at a certain audience, and knowing that I am part of this audience makes it enjoyable to watch. Wouldn’t recommend unless you really like bishounenified swords.

Ms. Koizumi Loves Ramen Noodles

6/10

I previously wrote that I was interested in seeing the stalker girl’s infatuation with Koizumi-san turn into a relationship. Of course it didn’t happen. Yuri? In your dreams. I do applaud this anime for going in depth into the ramen culture and making me hungry every week. There were some hardcore facts about ramen’s origins and experimental ramen. You could tell that they did a lot of research (or were sponsored well). I ate an average of 1.5 packs of instant ramen each week, partly thanks to Koizumi-san. How can I not eat noodles after watching it? Not really any substance to this anime unless you like hearing about ramen facts and watching anime girls foodgasm.

Average Anime

These I could recommend with disclaimers and not feel bad about it.

Junji Ito Collection

6/10

Like with most animes with short stories, there’s a handful of good and bad stories. Since the source material is pretty good, there’s more interesting stories than not. There are definitely some that are ridiculously stupid, but if you are in search of horror anime, this is one you should watch. I wouldn’t say it’s equivalent to Yami Shibai, but it’s good. The animation can’t match the signature entrancing horror that Junji Ito creates, but it’s a decent adaptation. One minor quip I have is that they reuse voice actors in each skit. Might be a budget issue, might be something else. It’s not a big deal, but mostly noticeable to me because Hoshiyan’s voice is too recognizable for me. lol. Oh yeah, the short story with the oil was absolutely disgusting. I enjoyed being grossed out.

Gakuen Babysitters

6/10

It’s like a shoujo but with toddlers. Cute interactions, likable characters. Of course, it’s a light-hearted story, so I guess I shouldn’t expect too much out of it. The comedy bits are well-written, and the art style is absolutely adorable. Great casual watch if you want to feel fluffy without the bullshit of shoujo romances.

Laid Back Camp

7/10

As the title suggests, it’s a pretty laid-back anime. I love the different personalities of the female cast. They shone quite well through the segments of texting. The way that they texted felt friendly, and I felt that I was part of this silly chat group. Also enjoyed learning a lot about camping supplies (and the little pinecones that squealed were so cute). Makes me consider wanting to go solo-hiking or camping to be able to enjoy nature. I’m really glad it covered winter camping, because that’s something that most people never consider, so you get to see the different equipment, activities, and benefits. Recommend if you want something chill with a well-written cast, but not a character-driven story line.

Hakata Tonkotsu Ramens

7/10

Surprisingly, I liked it quite a bit. I was actually expecting this one to tank, because it had a predominantly male lineup, was about assassins, and had a crossdresser. Sounded like someone picked things they thought would appeal to the general public and made an anime of it. Thankfully, I was wrong. Hakata Tonkotsu Ramens is actually based off a light novel series, which really shows through the thought-out plot and layered characters. I wouldn’t say it’s as crazy as Durarara!!, but some of the twists are quite interesting. I also really enjoy the diverse cast and their interactions: Lin Xianming, pseudonym for a Taiwanese assassin who also happens to crossdress; Banba Zenji, a playful, seemingly idiotic detective with a deck of tricks up his sleeves. There’s also a canonically gay character, an ex, a child, a hacker (with an interesting backstory), and more. And these characters make mistakes, get injuries, and have flaws. I’m hoping for a second season, because watching this was quite nice each week.

Karakai Jozu no Takagi-san

7/10

If you wanted fluff with actual romance, here’s the one for the season! There’s also quite a bit of comedy added. I did feel sorry for the protag Nishikata for falling victim to Takagi’s pranks every time, but I always looked forward to what she was going to do, and how it would fluster him. I think the romantic buildup was well-paced throughout the season. Kudos to whoever paced it, because they danced around with my feelings like an expert, giving me enough of a taste to feel the flutters of romance in my stomach, but not enough to make Nishikata and Takagi an item. Some of the skits were directed very well, with surprisingly effective cinematography (see the rain and umbrella skit). The ending was really cute, and I’m pretty encouraged to read the manga to get more content.

Mahou Tsukai no Yome

7/10

Nothing really jumped out at me. I feel like the actions of the characters didn’t follow a logic to it that made me understand the character better. Nothing really sparked an interested in wanting to cheer the characters on. I really felt passive in watching events happen to Chise and Elias, and the ending wasn’t particularly spectacular either. I think it’s a decent one to pass the time, but I could not get invested in the plot or characters.

Koi wa Ameagari no You Ni

8/10

This anime certainly isn’t for everyone’s tastes, but I think I really appreciated the latter half of the series more than the first half. The surface-level summary is about the age-gap romance, but once I was able to hear Kondo’s internal thoughts, especially about being older, the nostalgia of youth, and trying to pick a passion back up, I started enjoying it a lot more. I especially loved the scenes when he would banter with his college friend Chihiro. The only downside of the latter half of the episodes was the awkward tension between Akira and her friend. Her friend would just yell at her, and Akira would take it, and then not really consider it. And somehow it’s resolved. Well, other than that, I did like the characters and ending a lot.

Kokkoku

8/10

I rather enjoyed the setup and the unknown mechanisms of the system. The enemy really had the advantage in intellect and strength, and it was interesting watching how the characters tried to get around that. The last three episodes were a little flat, and the plot armor (kind of) and last bit of exposition was almost unnecessary, but it was there to give us a happy ending, which I did appreciate. Love the grandpa. I’d say this anime did a pretty decent job at the action and strategy, and the ending wasn’t blowing my mind, but I do really commend it on the setup.

Exceptional Anime

Worth your time.

A Place Further Than the Universe

8/10

Drama about girls aiming to go to Antarctica. Strong female cast, with a pretty believable depiction of average high school girls and how they might react and pursue their dreams. The voice acting was pretty spectacular for this show, especially during the second to last episode. ;) I think this anime is very real with what it’s like with concepts we usually don’t think of: having ambitions, lacking ambitions, making friends, losing friends, finding closure. It was rewarding to walk with the girls in every step of their journey. Animation quality was pretty awesome too. I also cried a bit at the end. I didn’t think I would enjoy an anime about high school girls going to Antarctica, but hey, I loved it.

Hakumei to Mikochi

8/10

It’s a slice-of-life about a pair of thumb-sized forest dwellers. Hakumei, the more adventurous of the two, works as a handyman and has a determined attitude. She’s still a very considerate person and is full of compassion and a heart to help others. Mikochi is a bit more reserved and particular. She’s famous for her cooking and has a passion for textiles and clothing. Both characters compliment each other well, and it’s cute seeing them bustle about their daily lives. You also get to see into the lives of other characters they meet, and it feels an established world with all it’s quirks and culture. The general feel of this anime is relaxed and storybook-like, similar to the same kind of vibe I get from Ghibli movies. I honestly thought this was a children’s anime during the first episode. It could be, but I enjoyed it a lot.

#personal #pointless anime ramblings